woodworker at the timber yard, of Kuttenberg
“I am a landowner with rights, no matter what my brother Johannes says. If I must work the timber yard, it is only until I secure my inheritance.”
Things Kunz Weber had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of the Ascension, at Vespers
Johannes stood in the tavern yesterday and yelled about the boundary stones again. The strip is mine! Father Karl meant it for me, not him. I work the soil. He just talks. I clench my fists every time I see him. God give me patience before I wring his neck.
Nota scribaeDictated in a great rush. The man was practically breathless.
the Wednesday after Saint Mark, at Prime
Hannes Hartung is a bloody thief! I missed one roof job because I had to argue with my brother over our land, and the next morning Hannes takes my spare iron axe from the yard. Says it is a pledge! It is worth more than a week's wages and Maurice pays me half-rate without it!
A pledge for lost wages, Kunz. You left me to do the work alone.
I am a landowner, I had business to tend to! Give it back!
the third day of Easter week, at None
If William Brown mentions his brother Matthew one more time, I will throw him in the river. I do not care if Matthew has sown the spring barley! We are sweating in the mud here, we have our own troubles. John Black says he found a new cellar for cheap ale, thank Christ.
Matthew is a good farmer, Kunz, which is more than you can say about your strip of dirt.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
Stood in the freezing mud at the Italian Court since first light. Master Maurice stayed locked in his counting-house and pointed at Walter Cooper instead of me. Walter! The dullest plodding fool in the yard. Now I have no wage today and must go listen to Lambert Hill preach at me.
If you stood quietly instead of glaring at the window, Maurice might pick you.
Nota scribaeThe man stamped his feet in the mud the entire time he spoke.
the second Sunday of Lent, at Compline
Hedvika died of a sudden fever, God rest her soul. She let us run a slate. Now her whoreson nephew has kicked us out into the cold and there is nowhere to drink. A man works his fingers to the bone, deals with a thieving brother, and cannot even get watered ale.
Poor Hedvika. At least in heaven there is no nephew to ruin things.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
It is my land, Kunz, you are a yard-labourer and you know it.